


The Alpha and The Bodyguard

by MajorIndecision



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Other, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-02
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 08:18:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14828705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MajorIndecision/pseuds/MajorIndecision
Summary: You'd been with him for nearly a year, but it was only recently that you started noticing his feelings for you, and your feelings for him.It had to have just been boredom, right? The Overboss certainly wasn't helping keep The Pack entertained.You should have just stayed quiet, but you just had to go and make yourself noticeable, and make a few friends.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I did write this first in Google Docs. Let me know what you think, because feedback would be much appreciated!
> 
> Oh, and the relationship tag isn't complete because I didn't want to spoil anything. You'll see <3

Being one of his most faithful guards, you could usually tell when your fearless leader was feeling various emotions. He had this tendency of lulling others into a false sense of calm when dealing with them, so he could scare the daylights out of them moments later; you, on the other hand, had learned to look past the body language he offered on the surface and watch his eyes. You would easily recognize that flash of rage followed by an almost drug-induced calm, and subtly step away. 

It was also simple to recognize his joy, which he didn’t hide as often; in fact, he would usually scream it to the heavens, howling and whooping and inviting his Pack into the noise. You were more reserved than that, but you could be loud if it meant pleasing your Alpha; at the same time, you didn’t always have to be. There were times when he shared a similar reaction to you, when you knew he was beaming with pride for one of his Pack but he concealed it to prevent it from going to their head. He’d send them off with a particularly rough shove and a joking manner and you would leave for a brief moment to come back with an ice cold drink, prepared especially for him; and honestly, you loved these moments, because he would offer you that same gleam in his eye, and give you a sincere grin uncommon in the Commonwealth.

At the same time, he also felt sadness, and concealed this likely the most; your speculation for such was that he believed that it made him weak, which you thought was utterly ridiculous but it wasn’t as though you were going to mention that to the depressed beef-stick so he could swap out his sorrow for fury. You had noticed that his sadness was usually detectable by a strange quiet, paused only when someone questioned him about it, to which the inquiries were usually met with a sudden and forced joy; and then that joy faded when no one was looking at him anymore. No one but you.

You hated to see him sad the most. It was a horrible feeling, knowing that your leader could be in mental pain. You knew, given your past experiences and own emotions, that mental pain could be worse than physical pain, and tended to go untreated, particularly in the Wasteland; how else could that nutcase Pickman have come along? With this in mind, you typically grew close enough that your Alpha recognized your presence, and depending on what you thought he needed you either offered him a drink, a simple utterance of sincere gratitude, a gentle pat on the shoulder, or an item of food.

His favorite, unsurprisingly, was the latter. Out of the food items you typically had stashed, his favorite was chocolate; luckily, you didn’t care for it too much, as it typically hurt your teeth, but he probably would have killed for it. It was with this knowledge in mind that you kept a stash of the sweet treat in the Amphitheater, and administered it to your leader when no one was looking; it was a sure-fire way to get the grin back on his face, and restore his energy. A chocolate bar and a cold drink was all he needed when he was feeling down, and you knew this the best of any member of the Pack, so of course you kept both on hand for him. Part of your duty was to protect his mental health as well, after all. Even if it wasn’t, you still would.

And speaking of protecting his mental health, you recognize an emotion now that had grown increasingly frequent since Colter’s laziness: boredom. It was easy to recognize because Mason had a tendency to stare like he was lost in thought; with nowhere to go physically, it was only common sense that he would attempt to retreat mentally. In this retreat, you tended to stare as well, because you honestly loved the subtle twitches he gave: the slight fluctuations in expression, the indistinct convulsions of his large muscles… 

But it was dangerous to stare for too long, you knew, lest he recognize; because with these mounting feelings of ennui came anger. He was like a volatile element when he was frustrated, and one certain way to infallibly frustrate the Alpha of the Pack was to confine him into a single relatively small area for months upon months on end. It had been months now, you realize, and your formidable leader was growing increasingly restless. You doubted in the state he could potentially be in that he would be calmed with chocolate, and only an idiot would suggest that he get out and stretch his legs; the other members were just as restless, and he might as well set off a Nuka-Nuke, for it would have a similar effect.

You watched him now, searching anxiously for any sign of wrath; you waved off any who dared to approach, knowing that any disturbance would set him off. He was like a ticking time bomb when he stared up at the sky, you knew; if he was brought from his trance, he would react with explosive ferocity. You wisely kept him unperturbed, but even you could not stop Mother Nature, and you recognized the distinct green the clouds donned as they began to roll in in sudden droves.

Usually, everyone would crowd into the backstage area, but Mason, being the largest of everyone, hated being in such a small space with so many people; thus, he usually simply popped a Rad-X, and you were the one to fetch the bottle of pills for him. As you returned, you found that he had finally raised himself out of the lying position he’d taken upon his throne, and sat there eyeing you with a gaze that obviously—at least to you—feigned patience. You hurried to him, offering him the bottle of pills, and he broke open the top to slide the last two out.

He offered you one, given that you never left his side, and you swallowed it down dry; you hated the taste, but it was preferable to the feeling of radiation pouring into your skin while you were helpless to stop it. Mason shuddered as he popped the pill, apparently having a similar reaction, and leaned back against his throne.

“Get me that Nuka-Cola over there,” he ordered.

You easily locate the drink he refers to and hurry to offer it to him, and watch him in your peripheral vision as he downs the drink in one large gulp, saving it from the bombardment of radiation that prepares to wash over the park. The sky flushes various shades of green as lightning strikes amongst the clouds, and you hear your geiger counter whine in response. The radiation hisses against your skin as the Rad-X works, and you shudder at the sensation. When your attention returns to your Alpha, you find that he watches you with the same intensity you had given earlier, and it takes you slightly aback.

“S-Sir?” Comes your instinctive answer, and you wince as it harshly cuts through the silence. Mason tilts his head at you, like a predator assessing his prey.

“Never seen you with that mask off,” he comments. You pale slightly beneath it, and he seems to recognize your fear because he suddenly howls with laughter, slapping a large hand onto your slim shoulder.

“I’m just joking,” he laughs, “I’ve seen you without it before.”

You sense that he’s trying to calm you, but the comment instead makes your head swim; you’re certain that you’ve never removed your mask in front of him, always one to maintain formal appearances, and his claims of such confuse and worry you. When had he seen you? Did he like what he saw? Would that influence his attitude towards you?

You are uncertain of how to progress the conversation, too afraid to ask his meaning, and as you return your attention to the Alpha you find that he’s staring up at the sky disinterestedly, features unmoving. As you peer closer, however, you recognize mischief in his eyes.

You jerk backwards despite yourself, shocked by this. Was he just playing with you? You see the corner of his lips strain, like he’s restraining himself from smirking, and you realize that his intent was to get a reaction from you for his own amusement. Suddenly finding your backbone, you decide to tease back.

“I’ve seen you without your face paint,” you boldly declare. It wasn’t entirely a lie—you’d guard him as he washed the dirt off of himself to check wounds that had the potential for infection, after all. He typically washed his face paint off, though he’d kill anyone else who had seen him without it. That thought hadn’t occurred to you before you’d said that, and now that it was out in the air and followed by a silence pregnant with uncertainty, you shrunk back, unsure of yourself once more.

Mason only laughs, and as you scan his face for any negative emotions you find that the gesture lacks anger, and draw nearer once more.

“Of course you have, you turd,” he barks, “you’re my fucking bodyguard.”

A couple of things strike you about this statement: first, it was his tone. You’d just remembered various instances where he’d put a bullet in someone’s head for seeing too much of what he didn’t want them to see and you’d admitted to this crime, and yet Mason was the most chipper you’d heard him in a while. It didn’t help that he called you a turd, and yet it seemed in a joking tone, which you’d never heard from him; nor did it help that he’d actually called you  _ bodyguard. _

It had always been understood that you were Mason’s personal bodyguard, sure, but no one had ever said it out loud. You were mostly recognized as another member of the Pack, nothing special, and you had assumed that Mason would take the same view; but he had just demolished that assumption. If you were lost as to how to continue before, you certainly were now, so you of course glanced to his eyes for some semblance of emotion to grasp onto.

Again, there was that mischief. He gave a playful tilt of his head and you could almost envision a twitching tail protruding from his backside, like a cat that wanted to tease its prey. Being a member of the Pack, you were adamant on not being prey, even from your Alpha; besides, you’d learned while working with him that Mason liked his men to have a little backbone. If you could pull it off, maintaining a respectful tone while returning his teasing was going to strengthen your professional relationship with him—maybe even get you a new friend.

With this in mind, you attempt to return his mockery; it’s easy for you to see in his expression and mannerisms that he wants you to, anyway.

“Why does an Alpha need to keep a bodyguard around?” You quip, it being the only thing you can think of; you hope it won’t cost you your place at Mason’s side, but if he truly didn’t want you around enough to kick you to the side like a stray dog, his absence would be for the better. You observe him as he sits up straight in his throne, folding his arms. His response is expected.

“Who says the Alpha needs to keep the bodyguard around?”

“The Alpha who never dismisses said bodyguard,” you bark back just as quickly. He’s slightly taken aback by your speed, as you nearly are; somewhere, in the back of your mind, you get the feeling that you’re digging yourself a hole you may not be able to get out of. You dismiss these thoughts, continuing—whether for better or worse. During your contemplation, Mason had leaned closer.

“Does the bodyguard  _ want  _ to be dismissed?”

There was something about his tone that made you shudder. Of all the emotions you recognized, that was not one of them. Swallowing dryly, you press onward.

“If they did, would the Alpha dismiss them?” 

“What if the Alpha likes keeping them around?”

The inquiry gives you pause. If Mason was suggesting that he liked having you around, that was rather good news; but at the same time, you had to wonder…

“Why would the Alpha like having the bodyguard around?” You question. Mason leans back in his throne, thinking for a moment.

“They’re good company,” he says, watching you intently, “they’re capable. They’re intelligent, they understand. At least what the Alpha wants them to,” he grins before continuing.

“They’re fun to tease.”

The playful sneer that accompanies the last statement ignites some primal instinct within you, and you growl in response, stepping closer.

“What if the bodyguard doesn’t  _ want  _ to be teased?”

Mason had risen from his throne. “Maybe the bodyguard shouldn’t make it so easy,” he quips.

“Shouldn’t anything be easy for an Alpha?”

“Shouldn’t the bodyguard know the Alpha well enough to make the teasing difficult for him?”

“Shouldn’t the Alpha be above teasing in the first place?”

Mason raises his head and looks down at you, and you suddenly realize how much taller he is, even without the steps he stands on. You hurriedly back off as he descends towards you, grabbing your arm roughly. He pulls you close, and you shudder as his facial hair tickles your ear.

“The Alpha does whatever the Alpha wants,” he whispers, “including his bodyguard.”

Your eyes go wide, and you feel your breath hitch in your throat. Your heart hammers in your chest, threatening to leap out of it as your mind dances around the statement, spinning. Your rational mind thinks too many things at once—maybe he didn’t understand the implications, meant he could do whatever he wanted  _ to  _ you, which meant less sex and more pain, so perhaps you should be grateful? You had no certainty of his statement whatsoever and the fact that he still held you as he pulled back to try and see your eyes did not help at all.

You think perhaps he caught a glance of your expression as his face splits into a sudden grin, and he releases you howling with laughter once more, slapping your arm as though attempting to shock you into joining him in his joy.

“I’m joking! Learn how to laugh a little, Pup!”

“R-Right,” you sputter, thoroughly shaken as you attempt to relax your tightening muscles, “joking.”

You almost recognize disappointment within yourself as Mason moves away, and the heat in your belly is left to fade and die. The radiation swirling in the sky retreats as everyone returns and the Alpha sits in his throne, the bodyguard at his side, indifference and boredom permeating the premises as though nothing at all had happened.

You were adamant not to drop the topic, but as you turn to face him you find that the Alpha has been disturbed by one of the stupider members of the Pack, and determine that now is not the best moment, as you would face his rage. A gunshot rings out. Against your best wishes, but in accordance with your desire to keep your life, you quiet yourself as you stand by the Alpha, unmoving.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: the original chapter was titled "Sacrifice, a Lizard, and a Mattress."

You’d heard that the Pack had secured territory in the Commonwealth, another blow against the Operators and the Disciples; they would retaliate, but in the meantime it was a day of celebration for your gang. You hadn’t personally spoken to the Alpha since he’d “joked” with you, as the thought of the conversation still unsettled you—of course, fate would have it that many members of the Pack chose to party outside of the confines of the Amphitheater, leaving you largely alone with the Alpha, save for the occasional drunken raider that passed through.

Mason seemed to be resting against his throne, eyes closed as he leaned back in it, his arms crossed against his massive chest. Staring at his muscular build, you couldn’t help but wonder what exactly he’d been fed as a child to have such physique; given that you’d literally seen him lift gatorclaws into the air for fun, it wasn’t really a question of what he did now. You supposed that adequate amounts of rest would also contribute to his muscle mass, but what perplexed you was  _ where  _ he was sleeping.

You’d never personally sat in it—no one had, lest they take a bright pink rocket-propelled bat to the face—but it looked to you like the throne was uncomfortably rigid, and you weren’t sure why he wouldn’t take the alternative of his mattress. Then again, you hadn’t actually seen it recently.

Slowly, you creep away from the Alpha’s side, retreating into the Backstage area. You approach Mason’s mattress, modestly placed in the center of the room and didn’t hold nearly the same grandeur as his throne, lacking a pillow or even a blanket. Not to mention the filth that encompassed it inside and out; you couldn’t help but scrunch up your nose at the unruly amount of dirt and blood and Atom knew what else caking the fabric of the poor bed.

It was obvious to you that Mason caught what little sleep he could on his throne because he desperately needed a new mattress, and his resulting insomnia was likely contributing to his mounting irritability. You didn’t like leaving the Alpha’s side for a prolonged period of time, but at the same time, you wanted to help him; thus, you turned to the best man you knew for intel on the location of a bed as grand as Mason’s throne.

“Shank,” you greet. The shifty man turns to you almost instantly, pushing himself away from the wall he had leaned against as he approached.

“Look,” he starts, “I know you Pack are celebratin’ and all, but I don’t want a drink—”

“That’s not what I’m here for,” you hurry to reassure him. His eyebrows shoot upwards in surprise, and he returns to his relaxed position against the wall.

“You gonna pay me?”

You sigh, but fish around in your pockets for spare bottlecaps. You toss him a pouch of about a hundred, and his eyes flick over them before glancing up to you. He remains silent for a moment, pocketing the pouch and folding his arms once more.

“Depending on what you need,” he begins, “that might not be enough.”

Cutting to the chase, you inform him: “I need to know where a comfortable, functioning bed is.”

He peers at you in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“It’s for Mason,” you say with a lowered tone. He seems to take you seriously then.

“Why didn’t you just fucking say Mason sent you?” That wasn’t at all what you meant, but Shank was already giving you a location, and you hurried to get the information down. You walked away with your pockets lighter and your mind working overtime.

You hated leaving the Alpha for so long—it felt like you were neglecting your duties—but you managed to convince yourself that you were still looking out for his well-being by fetching him a method of sleeping peacefully.

Even though that method of sleeping peacefully was stored in a boxcar halfway across Nuka-World, and last you checked that location was crawling with bloodworms and rad rats. You sighed as you hurried out of Nuka-Town, determined to return with the new mattress before the Alpha woke. 

The journey wasn’t as difficult as you expected; rather, the problem arose when you actually arrived to the junkyard. You were right when you recalled that the location was infested, but those weren’t bloodworms or rad rats.

Those were fucking deathclaws.

And you could see their skin and scales glowing with the power of Nuka-Cola Quantum, meaning that they were more powerful than normal deathclaws. You’d need at least six good men and a couple of suits of power armor to properly deal with them, and here you were with nothing but a handmade rifle and your Pack armor.

The only reassurance you had was that you could see the mattress you were looking for, neatly wrapped in plastic; but there were three of the massive lizards between it and you. Even if you snuck around them to get the mattress, it would take you forever to drag it with you, and taking forever with a deathclaw on your trail was not an option.

It occurred to you that you hadn’t actually brought anything with you to carry the mattress.

You cursed your stupidity under your breath, and ducked behind cover as one of the lizards turned their head. The damage was done; it crept closer to you, and you were powerless to stop it. You screwed your eyes shut, truly believing that you were about to die.

A large head poked into your side. You squeaked, opening your eyes and scrambling away as a deathclaw stood before you. You dropped your rifle and the massive irradiated lizard crushed it beneath its foot as it tried to approach.

_ Great,  _ came your thoughts,  _ even if I don’t die by dinosaur I’ll need a new gun. _

The deathclaw peered at the rubble beneath its claws and backs off a bit, its attention returning to you and, in particular, the bag at your side. It gives a short roar like it demands something from you, and your head swims. You desperately search through your bag, trying to located whatever it could want.

You pause, finding the Cram you had brought along for a snack. You glance up to the deathclaw, which waits expectantly, and shakily toss it the can of meat.

It rips it open with ease and devours the sustenance within, and you realize that this is your chance to escape. You scramble to your feet and sprint to the boxcar containing the mattress—but your heart sinks when you hear large footfalls behind you, and claws digging into the earth in pursuit of you.

You dive into the boxcar and scramble back as you find the deathclaw poking into it, peering at you. You recognized emotions it held almost as well as you recognize Mason’s, and to your shock, it appeared confused as to your actions.

Swallowing dryly, you rise, hearing other deathclaws circling around the boxcar. You were hopelessly trapped with one of them, with no weapon and no way to even get the thing you came for back to Nuka-World. You didn’t even know if the mattress was worth it, and glancing to the filthy plastic that held it, you weren’t sure it was.

The deathclaw recognizes your interest in it and looks to the plush rectangle of cotton (or something) with curiosity in its gaze, or so you thought. You try to drag it away from the lizard but find that it only draws more interest in it, and before you can stop it, it pulls the mattress up into its jaws.

You expect it to take a bite out of it, but instead find that it had grabbed ahold of one of the metal bars included as part of the bed frame, and stared at you like it expected you to do something. As you approach it, feeling nauseous, it lowers its head as though allowing you to get onto it.

In your shock and confusion, you notice something in its side—a branding. Suddenly it hits you: it wasn’t a wild deathclaw.

Some poor bastard at Nuka-World had actually tamed a deathclaw, and since you’d fed it, it intended to assist you. Left with few other options, you grabbed onto one of the lizard’s large spikes and hosited yourself up onto its back. It rose, but you realized it didn’t know where to go, and you were stuck again, because despite its tameness and apparent intelligence you seriously doubted it could read a fucking Pip-Boy.

You’d once seen an old movie, before a raider had stupidly let the circular projection-thing that played it catch aflame; in it, some guy dressed in clothing resembling that from Dry Rock Gulch had taken something and let a dog sniff it, and the dog had lead them to whatever the scent was. You doubt it will work in your situation, but given that you had literally no other ideas and didn’t know how to steer the deathclaw there, you take up a rag from the Amphitheater and place it in front of the lizard’s nose.

It took mere moments for the deathclaw to start sprinting, and you clung to it for dear life, instinctively screaming as it reached its top speed. You didn’t know what the plastic that encased the mattress was made of, but somehow it withstood the deathclaw’s jaws, and sooner than you expected you arrived at Nuka-Town.

You fell off somewhere at the gate, and found the deathclaw’s nose in your face as it checked on you. Nausea swam in your stomach as you got to your feet, your stance wobbly. You could have never guessed that a deathclaw’s nose could be cold and wet like a mongrel’s.

You looked about for the mattress and heaved it up onto its side with some effort; as you tried to drag it into the town, you became aware of the deathclaw following you.

Suddenly it occurred to you that it was in much danger; if it wasn’t shot on sight, it would be captured by the Pack and used in fights, starved to death. The poor animal didn’t deserve that.

“No,” you say sternly, finding that the lizard stops at the command, “go.” You wave off to somewhere in the distance, hoping it understands. The problem was that it did, and became adamant in attempting to force its nose into your heart, apparently.

“No,” you say again, forcing the massive head away, “you can’t come with me! Go!”

You hear a raider approaching, and frantically attempt to shoo the deathclaw away from you before it’s shot. You find a pistol left by the gate and hurry to grab it, firing three warning rounds upwards into the sky.

Finally, the irradiated lizard is spooked enough to leave. You sigh as you lower the gun, and turn your head as the footsteps approach more quickly.

“What the hell man?” Calls the Pack member. Conveniently, he was stronger than you were.

“I’ll pay you if you help me carry this,” you say instead. He pauses, gazing at you.

“How much?”

You sigh, fishing through your pockets—you find your last fifty caps, and the raider peering disapprovingly at you.

“It’s all I’ve got,” you huff, “that’s enough for some good booze.”

You manage to convince him to assist you in carrying the large mattress, and dragging it into the backstage area of the Amphitheater—but you can’t convince him to stay and help you put the bed frame together.

Sighing, you drag the previous filthy mattress off to the side, and start to work at constructing the frame. The written part of the instructions are useless—being born into the raider lifestyle, you never  _ quite _ learned how to properly read—and going off of the pictures isn’t as helpful as it should have been. Nonetheless you get it together, and force the pristine mattress out of its plastic casing.

You kick the trash away as you throw the mattress onto the frame, chest heaving in exhaustion. Your arms hurt already and that mattress looked inviting, but you were somehow able to restrain yourself as you tested your handiwork on the metal frame. Satisfied with your craftsmanship, you step away from the new bed to admire your work.

“What are you doing in here?”

You jump at the slightly raspy, demanding voice and whip around to find the Alpha peering at you, arms folded and body language displeased as he leaned against the doorframe. Suddenly it occurred to you that you hadn’t checked to see if he was still fucking asleep, and you inwardly curse your stupidity—again.

“Nothing sir,” you sputter, hurrying out the door past him. You don’t see his reaction to the bed, or even know if he saw it; he lets you go either way, and your first stop is the Market with the intention to buy a new gun. You could have asked Mason, of course, but considering he just potentially witnessed you screwing with his stuff—which he murdered people for on a weekly basis—you wisely thought against it.

And then it occurred to you that you were broke.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The original title of this chapter was "Paycheck to Paycheck."
> 
> Because you kinda need money.

You stood in the Market contemplating the nature of your own demise. Not only were you still uncertain on the nature of the Alpha’s teasing, and not only had you left his side despite the fact that he’d addressed you as “bodyguard” mere days before, but you’d potentially been caught (by him) messing with his things, and now you needed to return to get paid early. You’d used your last 150 caps trying to secure your boss a bed, and since the giant lizard crushed your gun you needed a new one.

You were broke, without protection, and you had to go and ask the man you’d probably just insulted for both. You were certain you would die—if you weren’t going to starve or be mauled by the creatures of Nuka-World, you were going to be strangled by your own boss.

But, at the same time, you realized that skulking and hiding from him would likely do more to make the situation worse than to help you, and it was with this knowledge in mind that you reluctantly began to return to the Amphitheater from which you just fled.

You strode in without difficulty, as those who had returned from their time of celebration were asleep; you easily located Mason upon his throne and timidly made your way towards him, stepping over mongrels as you went.

He barely looked up at you as you came over, and you were surprised by the genuine grin he gave you despite catching you not ten minutes before suspiciously near his things; as he spoke, it only aided your confusion.

“There you are. My throne was lonely without you standing next to it. Get,” he jerked his head in the direction of your rightful spot beside him, and you hurried to please him. You ascended the steps and stopped near him, gazing at him with your brows furrowed in concern as he simply leaned back against his seat.

As you were formulating your approach to ask him about your pay and your gun, he suddenly spoke.

“Where’s your rifle? Didn’t leave it in there, did you?”

You knew that by “in there” he meant backstage. You turned your head away as he questioned you, ashamed; you wished he could have found out another way.

“It broke,” you say gently.

Mason glances up at you in surprise. “You broke your rifle?” Gently, you nodded your head. He got louder.

“What do you mean by  _ broke?” _

You flinched away at his angry tone, lowering your head like a scolded puppy as you respond: “Shattered, sir.”

Mason rose, grabbing you by the collar. You squeaked and clutched at his muscular arms as his furious face grows nearer.

“You  _ shattered  _ your rifle,” he growls, “do you have  _ any idea  _ how expensive those are?”

You shook your head, trembling in fear as he clasps his hands around your neck. You screw your eyes shut in fear, expecting him to squeeze.

He didn’t. Confusedly, you open your eyes and find him grinning at you again.

“I can’t help it,” he says, “you have the best reaction when you’re scared.”

Now angered, both by your Alpha’s behavior and by the frustration of being tricked, you force yourself out of his grasp. “That was horrible,” you spit, “even for a raider.”

“I’m sorry,” Mason says, lowering his head like a scolded dog. His face still held that grin as he continued: “How can I make it up to you?”

“I need a new rifle,” you say, “and caps.”

Mason cocks a brow. “Caps? Why would I give you those?”

“Because you just gave me a heart attack?” You snarkily reply. Mason chuckles, shaking his head and stepping down from his throne.

“Fine,” he snorts as he disappears back stage for a moment, and soon returns, tossing you a bag. “Here. Five-hundred. Is that adequate?” His tone was indignant and spoiled. You rolled your eyes at this reaction, clutching the bag to you.

“Yes.”

“Great. Give me two hundred back.”

“What?!” You instinctively clutch the bag closer as Mason jerks his eyebrows at you, giving a smile that did not reach his dangerous eyes.

“Look, that’s just a portion of what I’d have to pay to get you another rifle like that. Unless you want a cheap replacement, give me two hundred back.”

You remember your rifle—she was perfect. Painted in colorful flames, she held a scope that would gaze for miles, and her suppressor was unmatched; she was the perfect sniper.

And as you thought of the possible replacement, you toss him the two hundred he requests, clearly upset. Mason grins as he catches the caps, coming over and patting the cheek of your mask.

“Good dog,” he says, before exiting. His careless behavior infuriates you, and you wait a minute or so before exiting the Amphitheater as well.

You were just walking, trying to get your mind off of the confrontation you’d had, when you came across Shank. He was speaking to the Alpha in question, and both men looked confused; hurrying behind cover to avoid being spotted, you curiously listened in.

“—came by and said you sent them.”

“They did? What did they want?”

“Are you saying you didn’t send them?”

“Shank, fucking answer me. What did they want?”

You paled. They were talking about  _ you,  _ when you had asked Shank about the location of the mattress. He had misunderstood you, assuming that “It’s for Mason” meant “Mason sent me.”

“They asked about some bed or something,” Shank says, “paid me for it.”

Mason straightened himself in a sudden realization, and for some reason you felt that you had to go. As you turned to leave, your foot caught a can of Cram and you clattered to the street like a bag of tatos.

You heard Mason approach from behind, and couldn’t get yourself onto your feet before he picked you up. He steadied you, and as you gazed up at him you finally saw the guilt in his eyes.

“I really am sorry, Pup,” he says, “and I mean that.”

There was that backbone again. You thrash yourself away from his grip, glaring at him.

“What, it took getting you something for you to actually apologize?”

“It ain’t that,” Mason says, face contorting in confliction, “you went through all that trouble—”

“And you wouldn’t care if I hadn’t?”

“That’s not what I—”

You had heard all you needed to. You threw Mason’s hands off of you and stormed away, and in the distance you could hear Shank call for the leader of the Pack to leave you alone. The first place you thought to go, as upset as you were, was Cappy’s Cafe.

The first thing that struck you was the cleanliness; thanks to the work of the settlers that ran it, the Cafe was one of the cleanest places in Nuka-World, though the woman who ran it tended to get cranky with raiders. You humbly took a seat at the counter with this in mind, and patiently waited for her to address you.

“What can I get you?”

You’d never been one for drinking. It tended to burn on the way down if it was heavy in alcohol, and even when it wasn’t you disliked the clouded judgement it gave you, as such a thing could be lethal in the Wasteland; so you settled for a simple Nuka-Cola. Refreshing, light, and most importantly, affordable.

You were enjoying your selection and just beginning to unwind when Shank came in and took a seat next to you. You shied away from the man and almost rose to leave before he caught his arm.

“Listen,” he coaxes, “I need to talk to you.”

Warily, you sit. You don’t quite face him fully as he speaks: “There’s something bugging me here. I get it’s your personal business and all but it involves one of the gang leaders so we need to get something straight.”

You pause for a moment, trying to fathom what he could possibly be talking about. Deciding finally that you have no goddamn idea, you simply nod, and hope that he’ll elaborate. He does, but not in the way you expected.

“Are you two dating?”

You almost choke on your Nuka-Cola, and bring the drink away as you’re sent into a coughing fit. You wave off the manager as she comes to check on you and look incredulously to Shank, sputtering for a moment.

“I’m sorry, what?”

Shank sort of smirked, like he was amused by your reaction, as he utilized the appearance of the manager to order a drink. He turned to you fully as she took her time preparing it.

“Sorry,” he says, “just sort of noticed. I don’t mean to pry, but since it’s Mason, I sorta need to know the nature of your relationship with him.”

“We are not dating,” you hurry to correct him, sputtering flusteredly, “what would give you that idea?”

Shank leans back as his drink arrives, taking a sip. You can smell the alcohol from here, and the acrid liquid causes you to instinctively scrunch up your nose in distaste.

“Well,” he starts, “first off, I’ve seen the way he looks at you. It doesn’t take more than a half-wit to know he doesn’t look at anyone else like that, and it’s easy to recognize—he looks at potential territory the same way.”

“How’s that?” You mumble, uncertain if you really want to know. Nonetheless, Shank looks to you.

“With want.”

You’re taken aback, and you look away thinking that perhaps he’s mistaken, or merely joking. Shank continues.

“I thought you two might be dating, too, because you  _ did  _ go to the other side of Nuka-World just to get him a bed,” he mentions, “and he does have a nickname for you.”

You glance to Shank confusedly at this point. “A nickname?”

Shank stares at you for a moment before he apparently realizes that you’re clueless as to his meaning, and he groans. “You seriously haven’t noticed? Doesn’t he call you ‘pup?’”

He did, you recall, but you’d never thought much of it because he referred to new or weak Pack members as “pups.” You relay this information to Shank, who sighs as he sets his drink on the counter, intertwines his fingers together, and leans closer.

“Let me put it this way,” he says, his tone reflecting his annoyance, “you do know how people in a relationship will call each other something like ‘baby’ or ‘babe.’”

You nod—that was obvious.

“They’re referring to human infants,” Shank says, “so why wouldn’t it make just as much sense for a man who acts like a wild dog to refer to his lover as an infant mongrel, or ‘pup?’”

It suddenly hit you what Shank was suggesting. Your face grew red at the thought that, all this time, Mason could have been calling you “baby” right under your nose.

You slap some caps onto the counter as you rise, hurriedly excusing yourself and exiting. You shoved your hands under your folded arms as you walked and thought, wondering whether you should go back to the Amphitheater or confront Mason.

You didn’t actually get a choice as you heard the large footsteps approach, and feel a surprisingly gentle touch upon your shoulder.

“Pup,” you hear the grizzled tone laced with regret, “I’m sorry.”

There it was, you realize, cheeks reddening. You figure that you’ve already screwed up enough today that potentially making it worse didn’t exactly matter anymore.

“Why do you call me that?”

Mason pauses, and then tsks as he leans closer. “You’ve been talking to Shank,” he realizes.

You turn your head away from his gaze, face hot. He smiles at you. “Fake it ‘till you make it, right?”

That was so much worse than any insult he could have offered. Your cheeks were so flushed you could feel the heat radiating off of them, and your heart hammered away in your chest, confusing your other organs. You sputter uselessly for a moment, unable to respond, before he speaks up again.

“You should take that mask off,” he offers, “and wear face paint instead.”

You say nothing as the Alpha smiles at you and proceeds to walk off, presumably back to the Amphitheater. You turn the other way, attempting to walk off your confusion, and you end up soaking your foot in a puddle of water.

You glance down distastefully at the dampness that clogs your shoe and pull your leg away, attempting to shake it dry; you happen to glance down at the rippling liquid and find your mask peering back up at you. Suddenly, it occurs to you that you’d like to see what you look like without it.

You remove it, taking in a deep breath as your lungs finally receive air unrestricted by your mask’s faintly wooden material. The constant odor of smog and radiation permeating the park causes you to cough and wheeze; when you stabilize your breathing, you glance down and find your gentle face peering back at you, surprisingly unblemished by the Wasteland. Your hair plasters itself to your head, dampened by sweat, and you can’t help but wonder as you gaze at your features whether Mason will like you or not.

You weren’t one to be egotistical, and you’d like to think that you didn’t have a dangerously low self-esteem, but the life of a raider had taught you to be critical of yourself and your actions; thus your reaction to your own face, which you examine thoroughly, turning it from side to side and poking at any blemishes or markings you may or may not find.

You remember his request, and in a fit of trying to repair your mistakes you gather some of the nearest paint you can find and smear the orange and blue substance against your face in varying patterns. 

Satisfied with your work, you retreat back to the Amphitheater, timidly entering and looking about for your Alpha. You find him backstage, and as he gazes at your face expecting a mask you register clear shock on his features that melt to a pleased grin, his eyes crinkling at the edges with joy.

“You took my advice,” he says, obviously pleased. You shift on your feet uncertainly; noticing this, he smiles.

“You look good,” he adds, “better without that horrible mask.”

You instinctively place a hand to your chest as though to protect your heart, your pride damaged by the blatant attack. You had crafted that mask yourself, from materials you’d gathered in the Wasteland. He chuckles at your reaction.

“Just saying, Pup,” he purrs, coming closer; you go rigid as he breathes into your ear, grinning. 

“Since you gave me the mattress,” he whispers, “why don’t you join me on it?”


	4. Tarzan and Jane

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the hiatus! I've had a few other chapters written, but I've been too busy to publish until now. So, I'm basically going to publish all I have and continue it if someone asks me, but otherwise, I don't see this project going anywhere else. Sorry for the inconvenience!

The rain poured over your trembling form as you sat in the street, the cold droplets of water pelting you as you attempted to get some sleep. You were as far away from the Amphitheater as you could get, scared away both by Mason’s advances and your own feelings on the matter. The fire sparking in your stomach had startled you more than the man trying to straddle your waist as he tried to force you into the bed, and your side still hurt from rolling off of the mattress to escape and smacking into the terminal.

You felt horrible about knocking the computer off of the table and letting it crash to the ground, but you were shaken as you fled from the Amphitheater. Mason’s behavior was to be expected, but the notion of actually enjoying it was not. You wondered if perhaps there was something wrong with you.

Your body reminded you that there was something wrong with you, giving a violent shudder against the rain that drenched your clothing. The closest thing to actual cover you could have gotten was also the closest thing to Mason’s searching, and so you sat outside of Nuka-Town, avoiding the creatures farther into the park. The wall you sat against had no cover around it, and so you were at the full mercy of the rain.

You gazed out at the other parks, and as you did it suddenly occurred to you that Safari Kingdom was largely silent. The Galactic Zone swarmed with dangerous robots, Dry Rock Gulch was filled to the brim with bloodworms, the Bottling Plant held some mutated variation of mirelurks, and Kiddie Kingdom was overrun with ghouls; you’d heard all of this from scouting teams from each gang, but you’d heard nothing of Safari Adventure, and it appeared to you that the trees there would offer adequate cover.

Clutching your rifle close as the post-apocalyptic thunder reigned across the sky, you rose from your spot against the wall and swiftly crossed the barren landscape, avoiding bloodworm burrows and other insect dens in the process. As you neared Safari Adventure, the previous noise of the scenery about you suddenly fell to an eerie hush, and you grew wary as you approached. 

You passed the gate, and jump as thunder cracks in the sky above; you are reminded of your mission to get out of the rain, and swiftly head towards the nearest building you can find.

A large reptile akin to a deathclaw leaps out at you, and you scream as the beast pins you to the ground, its gaping jaws mere inches from your face. You close your eyes and cover your face with your arms in anticipation of the pain that would come from being mauled by the creature, dread settling like a stone in the pit of your stomach.

With a hiss and a sickening crack, the beast is launched off of you. Winded and terrified from the experience, you scramble to your feet, a strong hand pulling you away before you can escape.

“Follow,” comes a thick voice, though its owner was already dragging you along regardless of your choice in the matter. Flailing and thrashing, you find, is useless as the figure keeps a firm grip on your arm.

You were powerless to stop it as the figure dragged you into the primate house, and upon finally releasing you locked the door, trapping you within.

He turned, and your breath hitched in your throat, fingers stuck against your gun’s side despite your wishes to defend yourself; the man was barely clothed, and nearly held the same muscle mass as Mason, which you hadn’t actually considered a possibility until that point.

“Monsters attack,” the mysterious figure says, “friend safe now.”

Friend? You want to question the man, but it becomes too difficult to answer. He approaches you, examining your face.

“Friend has colorful gun,” he starts, “can friend use colorful gun?”

“Wh-What makes you so certain I-I’m a friend?” You assert carefully. He pauses, staring at you.

“Monster attack friend,” he says, “and if monster attack friend that mean friend have enemy. Cito help friend with enemy, make friend Cito friend, friend help Cito with monsters.”

His barbaric language was hard to follow, but the last statement was impossible to mistake, and your eyes go wide at the notion of helping the man with those things.

“I-I can’t,” you sputter immediately, “you just saved me from one!”

“Friend caught off guard,” Cito agrees—or so you think, “friend will help better.”

Apparently, the uncertainty reads easily enough for the wildman, because he soon adds: “Friend repay Cito for save friend life.”

You felt the sweat dampen against your brow as you desperately searched for some escape, and only found irradiated gorillas; you were highly regretting your decision to seek shelter here.

“Okay,” you mumble, without much other choice. If you killed Cito, his family would kill you, and it’s not as though you could make a run for it with multiple large primates in the way.

“Good,” says Cito, as he explains some story about a “wrinkled man.” You weren’t paying much attention as you gazed at his expansive chest, and came back in at multiple verbal proddings from the man you undressing out of that loincloth with your eyes.

“Cito come with friend?”

Honestly, you wanted to answer no, but bringing along a hot (and potentially dangerous, but you weren’t quite thinking of that, infatuated with the muscular flesh before you) guy was preferable to being mauled by whatever those things were outside. Sighing, you nod.

As you stepped outside, you recognized that it had stopped raining; which meant that all of this could have been avoided if you would have waited for the clouds to pass. You donned a miserable look as you trailed behind Cito, occasionally glancing about and wondering if you could sneak away.

At this point, you didn’t think there was much use in escaping; he had saved your life, and you hated leaving debts unpaid. The thought crossed your mind to shoot him, but every time you went to squeeze the trigger or even aim for him his beauty saved him; it would haunt your dreams if you were the death of such muscular prowess.

It occurs to you that you may have a problem, but you shrug it off in favor of the greater problem at hand; Cito enters a pyramid-like building, leaving you to trail behind.

“Friend look around with Cito,” he says, “find something.”

You sighed, realizing that he didn’t even know what you were there for, and immediately recognized a terminal and a locked door; you couldn’t hack it, but it informed you that you needed some password from a dead scientist—who had coincidentally been kidnapped.

You called Cito over and explained this, trying very hard to focus on his eyes. He appeared deep in thought for a moment, before suddenly recognizing something.

“Wait. What friend say?”

You glanced off the terminal, reading off the name of the location he was supposedly taken to after a bit of difficulty: “Angry Anaconda.”

“Anaconda sound like old snake,” Cito concludes, “so maybe shiny box talk about big snake!”

Fear pangs in your heart. “Big snake?”

Cito laughs at you, causing your shoulders to slump before he elaborates: “Silly friend! Not see big snake? Very snake-y, very metal-y, and Cito see everywhere. Follow.”

He takes you back outside, and waves at the rollercoaster in the distance—oh. The Angry Anaconda. It was a ride.

“See? That where Cito and friend go. Find science-man.”

You start towards the “big snake,” feet crunching against the treacherous earth. Much to your chagrin, you find another monster upon arriving, and Cito happens to face the beasts in close-combat. You lag behind him, aiming at the weak points of the creature where you can and trying not to hit Cito.

It thuds to the ground uselessly upon its death; you find that the beasts are terrifying, but not without their flaws, and weaker than deathclaws. As Cito turns towards you, you’re shocked to find blood upon his cheek.

“C-Cito,” you sputter worriedly, “you’re hurt!”

Cito peers at you strangely—and then his face lights up in amusement and he laughs at you again, your ears burning in embarrassment. “Funny friend,” he says as he wipes the gatorclaw’s blood away, “Cito not hurt!”

You decide to stop speaking to the wildman unless spoken to, as you figured it would save a lot of trouble—and your pride. Finding the password easily enough, the two of you retreat to the pyramid building, and you unlock the terminal within.

As the door slides open, you step back and allow Cito to go first. It was a relatively straightforward route through the building, and killing the monsters was relatively simple as you searched for the machine that cloned them.

The problem came when the albino one showed up. It batted Cito back like a rag doll as he approached it, and he slammed into you, eliciting a squeak from your throat as you both went down; pinned under his heavy body, you were helpless as the monster approached, flicking its reptilian tongue out at you as though mockingly.

You fought to get your arm out from under Cito’s unconscious form, desperately thrashing as you tried to reach for your rifle. The beast grew nearer, and you shut your eyes as its scales became more definite, and you could feel its breath on your face as it unhinged its jaws.

Just as you thought it was the end, another roar of more power rang out; you threw your eyelids open in shock just in time to see a blue and black form of larger magnitude slam into the creature.

You watch in amazement and slight horror as the Quantum deathclaw caught the smaller albino’s body in its horns, charging and rampaging the poor beast through a wall before tossing it at another that it hadn’t levelled, raising itself to its hind legs and roaring triumphantly as the beast fell dead.

You struggled harder as the deathclaw now approached you and Cito, and thought the worst as it caught your friend in its jaws—but when you felt no shower of blood you glanced up and found not that the deathclaw had attempted to kill him, but rather that it had taken him by the loincloth and lifted him off of you. It eased him to the floor and you gazed confusedly at it as it offered its snout to help you stand; you wrap your hand around one of its horns and get to your feet.

One of your legs was twisted in the scuffle, and you hissed in pain; the deathclaw recognized your agony, and tried to nudge you onto its back. As it did, you realized that you knew the massive lizard—it was the one who had helped you with your boss’ mattress.

“What the hell,” you gasp, “how did you find me?”

With a groan, Cito reminded you of his presence. You hurried over to help him to his feet, and found that he jerked away in fear at the sight of the deathclaw, grabbing his bat.

“No! No,” you cry as you jump between them, much to your leg’s resistance, “this one saved us.”

Cito paused, gazing at the lizard. He reached out his hand and the deathclaw nuzzled its nose into his palm, causing him to smile. “Ah! Big lizard friend. Big lizard save Cito and friend?”

You nod, and the wildman looks to the deathclaw’s eyes. “Cito owe big lizard,” he says.

The deathclaw clearly doesn’t understand, but appears to be flattered by the gesture nonetheless as he butts his snout into Cito’s stomach. You bite down your jealousy of the lizard long enough to smile at the two.

Cito peers at you. “What is lizard name?”

You pause for a moment, realizing that you had never called it anything. As you wrack your brain for some semblance of an answer, you were suddenly reminded of some pre-war tale you’d heard of, about a wildman and his friend or something—about Tarzan and…

“Jane,” you say finally. Cito nods a bit, repeating the name to himself. The lizard looked clueless as to its own name, but you supposed that it would learn it eventually.

As you admire the scene before you, a sudden beeping catches your attention. You look over to find a terminal waiting for you. You recall your quest and intentions in the first place, and hop on the terminal to shut off the cloning thing.

With some effort and a lot of pressing buttons, you finally figure out how to do it, and as you remove yourself from the terminal you find Cito and Jane both looking at you expectantly.

“Friend repay Cito,” Cito mentions, a bit sadly, “if Friend want to go.”

You suddenly remember the danger of bringing Jane with you, and so you approach Cito, smiling slightly at him. “I’ll visit,” you say, “in the meantime, Jane will keep Cito company. Help Cito fight any monsters.”

You couldn’t believe you’d just spoken like that, but before you could cringe you had a wildman pulling you into an ecstatic hug, jumping enthusiastically with his joy. “Cito see friend,” he calls, “Cito take good care of Jane.”

“I’m sure you will,” you say fondly, before bidding Tarzan and Jane goodbye.


	5. Dangers of Twilight

The sun was rising when you returned from your shenanigans at Safari Adventure, and you strolled into Nuka-Town like you hadn’t been gone, Cito and Jane’s faces on your mind. You had almost completely forgotten about Mason in the excitement, but of course he had to remind you, and you screeched as you entered the Amphitheater and found strong arms around you.

“Was wonderin’ where you went, Pup,” mumbled Mason in your ear. You writhed out of his grip, and he easily let you go, frowning at you.

“What’s wrong, Pup? I was worried about you.”

You say nothing, having no knowledge of what to say; you simply glance downwards, avoiding his gaze. You hear Mason sigh before retreating, and look up to see him sitting upon his throne, reclining back onto it with a bored gaze that was not uncommon given recent events.

You sigh softly as you take your place beside his throne, peering at the concrete. It was not minutes after you had taken this place that the doors to the Amphitheater busted open, several Pack Scavvers entering with strange creatures on leashes.

“Boss!” One calls, struggling to hold one of them; it appears almost as though droves of shadow roll off of the dog-like creature, which barks at and scares away nearby mongrels.

Mason raises off of his throne, with interest finally shining in his eyes. “What’s this?” It wasn’t a demand, you realized—more of an intrigued question.

“Found these on the outskirts of the Commonwealth,” the Scavver grins, “came from some place called ‘Far Harbor’ or something. Some idiot trader was trying to sell them.”

“What are they, wolves?” Mason leaned forward on his throne, not quite standing yet; the Scavver neared with the creatures.

“I guess,” he says, “but just imagine how they’d do against a ghoulrilla!”

Apparently, the wolf at his leash understood the implications of being pit against an irradiated gorilla in a fight to the death because it suddenly grew violent, lashing out at the Scavver. He yelped as its jaws drew nearer and dropped the leash, jumping back to avoid being bit; the wolf’s next target was the nearest person, and you were the unlucky soul.

You didn’t react fast enough as the wolf leapt at you, but Mason caught it by the throat, strong hand clamped around its neck; he stepped back as it thrashed wildly against him, barking and howling and raising Hell. It had gotten out of his grasp and torn at his leg before he was able to crush its head in with his bat.

“You fucking idiots,” he howled, “you have to tame them properly first!”

The Pack members hurried to get out of Mason’s sight as he sat back on his throne. With the immediate threat gone, you peer at your Alpha with wide eyes; his chest heaves, sweat beading upon his brow. He tries to hide it by casually leaning back but the wound on his leg was worsening.

“Boss,” you start, “you need a Stimpak.”

He glances over at you in his exertion, before looking away and nodding curtly. You hurry away to fetch him the healing item, retrieving it from backstage—before you hear a yell and a thud from outside, and rush back to find your Alpha on the ground.

“Mason!” You cry as you rush to his side. He’s drenched in sweat, his muscles spasming uncontrollably as you pull him into a seated position, and find his eyes swimming with sickness. You fumble with the Stimpak you hold for a moment before jabbing it into his wound, slowly injecting the liquid.

Mason throws his head back, howling in pain. As the chunk of flesh taken from his leg starts to regenerate you stare at him in worry; you’d never seen your Alpha like this, and it scared you. You placed your hand to his forehead and as you did you realized he had a fever.

He leaned into your touch before his muscular form fell completely forward. You struggled to keep him upright as he buried his nose into the crook of your neck—was he whimpering? 

A Pack member stood by, nearly gawking, and you hissed at him. “Don’t just stand there,” you bark, “help me!”

With the member’s help, you ease Mason onto his bed in the backstage area and stay by his side as he lays on his back, moaning in pain.

“Pup,” he gasps. You take his hand, squeezing it lightly.

“I’m here,” you say, tone laced with worry for your ill Alpha, “I’ll take care of you.”

His tired eyes seem satisfied with this and he finally lets them slide shut, exhaustion overcoming his aching body. You watch him, and come to the realization that he had saved you from this same fate by stopping the wolf.

You pull up a chair and sit by his side. You were no doctor, but you would be available for him whenever he needed you—no more going off to get a mattress or leaving to get some shelter from the rain. You push the thoughts of your adventures from your head and focus on the man who had just saved your life until you can’t focus anymore. Your vision grows dark, and you let your head fall onto the mattress, wearily allowing a dreamless sleep to wash over you.

You had no idea how long you’d been sleeping by the time you wake, but you feel something poking at you. You groggily raise your head, and find glowing eyes peering at you.

You yell, startled, and jump back, knocking over your chair and tumbling back over it. You hear an animalistic whimper, a weak whine, before the croaking and feeble call:

“Pup?”

You remember your Alpha and immediately get to your feet, scrambling to his side. As you peer at his eyes you realize that you must have hallucinated in your tired state; they were the same shade of non-glowing green as always. His pupils looked strangely a bit slimmer, but you waved it off as nothing as you took Mason’s hand in your own.

“I’m here,” you assure him, rubbing your thumb soothingly over his knuckles. He turns his head back, whimpering frailly.

“Pup, do you have any food?”

You knew from earlier experiences that he loved chocolate and Nuka-Cola Victory, so you dug in your cooler for the two; you heard him moan and glanced up to find him shaking his head.

“Boss?” You ask.

“Just water,” he says, “and meat.”

The request was a bit strange but you figured he wanted to stay away from anything that could potentially hurt his stomach—he was already sick, after all. You looked to one of the guards, who had been keeping prying eyes out of the backstage area since Mason had first fallen.

“You go get it,” you say, not wanting to leave your Alpha’s side. The faithful guard nods as he exits, the other picking up the slack and assuring everyone who attempted to enter that everything was under control.

You hear Mason croak, his throat dry as he tried to speak. “They really care.”

You looked at him curiously. “Of course they care,” you say, “you’re the strongest of all of us. They all look up to you.”

He turned his head slightly, face flushed with fever as he peered up at you. “Do you?”

“Of course,” you answer without hesitation. Mason had always been a role model for you—he was a role model for all of them, even before he was Alpha. It had been easy to see his potential even then.

He turned his head back to the side, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. “Thank you, Pup,” he whispers, “that means a lot coming from you.”

It suddenly occurred to you as you comprehended his statement that maybe he cared more about you than you’d originally thought, and the sinking feeling of guilt stabbed into your heart. You came over, gently placing a hand on his arm.

You couldn’t think of what to say in response, but luckily enough for you the guard came back with some purified water and crispy cave cricket; the latter made you shudder, as you were never fond of the large insects, but nonetheless you take the meal and thank the guard as he retreats back to his station by the door.

You ease Mason up into a seated position and help him down the water first; when he doesn’t expel it back up, you start feeding him the cave cricket, ripping off little chunks and offering them to him one by one. He seems to gain some strength by the time the meal is finished, and you help him to lay back down.

“I feel better, Pup,” he says, but you’re certain that he’s still weak, and simply trying to keep up appearances.

“Relax,” you tell him, “you’ll make yourself worse if you rush.”

He seems to trust you, though he sighs as he sinks into the mattress once more, turning his head and closing his eyes. You rub his arm gently, trying to soothe him to sleep.

“...Pup?”

“Yes?”

“Can I have a kiss?” He opens his eyes, peering expectedly at you. The inquiry gives you pause, and you gaze down at him; he was coming out of his delirium, but still looked miserably ill. You sigh as you lean close.

He nearly jumps up to meet the affection and you still him, willing him to be patient as you gently plant your lips against his own. He melts into the embrace, giving a rumbling sigh of contentment and a whine of longing as you pull away.

“Get some rest,” you say. You feel grateful for your face paint, as it distracts from your furiously burning cheeks.

He finally complies, mumbling out an expression of gratitude as he drifted off to sleep. You sat next to him once more, and, still feeling tired, joined him.

When you woke, he was gone. You jumped to your feet, startled, and look to the guard at the door.

“Where did he go?” You demand, clearly distraught.

“Throne,” the guard answers, gesturing towards the door with his thumb. You hurry outside, and find your Alpha indeed sitting on his throne.

“Mason,” you cry as you come over, “you need to rest!”

Mason grins at you. “I feel great, Pup,” he assures. You knew this couldn’t be correct, as not twelve hours ago he could barely stand. 

“Mason,” you say, “you need to lie down.”

The Alpha rolls his eyes at you, and huffs as he gets to his feet, grinning. “I feel fine,” he says, gesturing outward with his arms, “see?”

You frown at him, sighing as you come over to his side. You knew how stubborn your Alpha was; if he was adamant on not returning to bed, there was really nothing you could do to convince him, except maybe offer him another kiss.

Your cheeks go red at the thought, and you settle for picking him up off of the concrete should he suddenly fall unconscious. He sits back onto his throne, and all is well for a matter of minutes.

Until the clouds pass.

The dark fluffs of thunder had been steadily rolling ahead to reign precipitation upon another destination, but as their numbers faded the light of the moon began to shine. Tonight, it was a perfect round orb, illuminating the entire park with ease. As it revealed itself, your vision brightened.

And in this heightened state of vision, you glanced over to your Alpha to find him shaking. You rushed to catch him as he fell to the ground, crying.

“Mason!” You knew he should have listened to you.

But this fall was very different from the last. As he collapsed, he curled in on himself like he were struggling with some great pain, and gasped wordlessly as sweat rolled off of his rippling skin; you heard the brutal cracking of bone, and scurried away at the sudden expansion of muscles.

To your horror, your Alpha’s form began to morph into a large beast, some hybrid of mutt and man resembling the wolf that had attacked him; his smooth skin was rapidly overcome with fur that stuck out of his tank top shortly before it was ripped in two by his quickening increase of size. His nails thickened and elongated to claws, his teeth sharpening as his jaw and lower face cracked and likely broke to allow for the elongation of his nose and formation of a snout; he finally found his voice, but it seemed that even his vocal chords had been changed, as all that would come out was a ghostly howl of agony.

You were too shocked to back away, paralyzed with fear as the red-furred monster rose and towered over you, its chest heaving in exertion; rancid breath pumped forth from its rotting teeth and horrid tongue as it drew closer, preparing to eat you alive. You could do nothing but scream.

Scream, and finally wake in a cold sweat.


	6. Heartbreak

You woke with your lungs burning from their excessive usage, your eyes watering whether from your panicked coughing or from the tears you’d shed in the last moments of your sleep. You hurried to wipe away the liquid that prevented your vision, your hands coming away as an ugly mix of blue and orange as your face paint comes with the tears. You looked about as though expecting the monster from your nightmare to hunt you down any second.

And then you realized just that: it had only been a nightmare.

It relieved you to know that it hadn’t been real, but at the same time the length of it had not been unpleasant; you recall in particular how grateful Mason was for your presence, and you wonder if perhaps that part of it had been based on reality.

You thought maybe you should stay where you were, resting away from the Amphitheater against the cold earth; but you missed your bed, and you had to reassure yourself in your fear that your nightmare really had been nothing to worry about. You had to make sure Mason was still human.

As you neared the Amphitheater you gained strange looks from your fellow Pack members, before one finally approaches you.

“Mason’s been looking for you all night. Where the fuck have you been?”

You feel yourself grow pale with the realization that you kept Mason waiting. “Has he been up all night?” You sputter, the first thing you can think of.

“Hasn’t been to sleep yet,” the member confirms.

You hurry into the Amphitheater, and you’re not startled by Mason hugging you from behind as in your dream; you instead receive the same embrace from the front, as your Alpha notices you and hurries over to pull you into his arms.

“Pup,” he sighs exasperatedly, relief bleeding into his tone, “I was worried.”

You have unexpectedly confirmed the belief that Mason cares more about you than you had originally thought. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to you before your dream that he may be interested in you for more than your physical appearance, or that he would want a relationship.

Abruptly, stuck in his arms, you have the strong desire to return his feelings. The same emotion had run you off before, accompanied by butterflies in your stomach, as your Alpha invited you onto his mattress; now, you wished to join him.

You let it glue you there, eyes wide with shock as you had no idea how to react. Mason recognized your rigidness and pulled back with a pause, eyeing you.

“Pup?”

You nervously cleared your throat, keeping your gaze on whatever part of the world you could see that was not the extremely alluring hunk of meat before you. You did not free yourself from the embrace—you wanted to remain in it.

“I’m fine,” you squeak, “sorry for worrying you.”

“Where were you?” You become faintly aware of his large hands petting the back of your head as he pulls you close once more. Your heart thumps loudly in your chest, and you can feel it in your throat as your anxiety and fear and confusion and desires and shame all bottle up against you.

“Um.” You couldn’t answer. Your throat was dry and your head spun as you slipped into your habit of worrying and overthinking—one you’d developed attempting to survive in a fucked up Wasteland where one wrong move could leave you dead. You couldn’t tell if what you wanted would kill you, and it was paralyzing you.

Then what you wanted stepped back, as though to give you some space, and you realized you hadn’t hugged back. You stare at his concerned face and realize that this man would protect you with his life whether you had him or not, just like he had in the dream.

Just as you gather the courage to do something, he pats your shoulder, silencing you with surprise.

“Come on, Pup,” he says, as he turns and retreats back to his throne. You blink stupidly for a moment before scrambling to follow on his heels.

“Mason,” you say as he takes a seat, hurrying over. You nearly trip over a mongrel as it strays from its typical path, and you come over after stumbling over the mutt; your footing wasn’t certain, and you yelp as you fall forward—directly into his lap.

Mason instinctively wraps his arms around you to prevent you from falling back and, unable to help himself, the Alpha grins at you.

“If you wanted to sit on my lap, Pup, you could have just asked.”

You’d rubbed away some of your face paint, you remember as your exposed cheeks burn hotly with your blush. You sputter uselessly for a moment, unable to speak; your decision to remain in his grip gives Mason pause.

Neither of you can contemplate on the situation for much longer, however, as a strangely familiar voice rings out:

“Masie!”

“Oh, son of a fuck,” Mason groans, releasing you from his grip and steadying you on your feet. Confusedly, you look to the gate to find the most psychopathic of the Disciples skipping over: Dixie.

“Masie, what were you doing?” Dixie questions, coming over and planting a kiss on the Alpha’s lips—or so she intended. Mason turned his head, her lips landing on his cheek, and shoved her away.

You felt jealousy bubble up amidst your utter cluelessness.

“What do you want, Dick?” Mason smirks. “Sorry, Freudian slip.”

“What the hell is a Freudian… Oh, whatever! Masie, I came to say I’m sorry,” Dixie slipped her mask off, and to your further bewilderment gave your Alpha the biggest puppy dog face you’d ever seen.

You reach up and pinch yourself, just to ensure you aren’t still dreaming.

“Really? What was it you said… Oh, ‘I’ll never apologize, over my dead fucking corpse?’” Mason gazes incredulously at her. She huffs, cheeks puffed like an upset child.

“Come on, Masie, I was wrong! I was wrong, you were right, what more do you need?”

“I don’t need anything from you,” Mason informed her curtly, folding his arms and leaning back.

“Are you sure, Masie?”

You turned away with a reddened face as Dixie started to unbutton her blood-covered blouse. To your horror, Mason’s breath hitched in his throat like he was remembering what he needed from Dixie, and you sputtered as you searched for something to say.

Dixie looks to you with a cruel smile. “Oh,” she starts, “maybe you should go.”

You fled with tears kissing your eyes. Mason called after you but you didn’t respond; you didn’t even know the nature of their relationship but looking back and seeing the two kiss in the throne infuriated and hurt you. You slammed open the gate and rushed out of the Amphitheater feeling like shit, and you made the one stop you thought would perhaps make you feel better: Cappy’s Cafe.

Shank was there again, smoking by the door. He took one look at you as you started to enter and did a double-take before he blocked your way. “Woah,” he says, “what the hell happened?”

“Dixie,” you start, breathing hard to get your sorrow under control, “she—” You didn’t know what else to say; you didn’t even know if you should be telling Shank. He dropped his cigarette, crushing it under his boot.

“Come on,” he says.

He takes you inside and leads you over to a quiet booth in the corner after ordering two drinks. He’d gotten you the same Nuka-Cola you’d ordered when the two of you had first spoken in the Cafe—he’d been paying attention, and he remembered.

“Dixie,” he says, “what did she do? You need a Stimpak?”

“No,” you say. They’re not physical wounds, you want to add, but you keep your gaze to the floor; you felt so stupid for getting upset.

“Has to do with Mason, doesn’t it?” You look up to Shank in surprise, but he only snorts at your shock. “I’m not that stupid, kid. It’s not hard to tell when someone’s had their heart broken.”

You look to the floor, scuffing the floor with your shoe. You clutched onto your drink so tightly that you could feel your knuckles turning white. Shank sighs.

“Listen, I’m not very good with emotions, but I’m good with information. You wanna know the deal between Mason and Dixie, right?”

You nod. He clears his throat and takes a shot before continuing.

“They used to date. Dixie is Mason’s ex.”

You winced; you’d suspected it, but it still stung to hear the information. You glance up at Shank, and he falters.

“Don’t look at me like that. Jesus, you looked like someone killed your puppy.”

Confusedly, you inquire: “What’s a puppy?”

“Nevermind,” he mutters, leaning over the table, “look, the point is, Mason dumped Dixie a while back because—well, dunno if you’ve noticed, but she’s batshit, and Mason’s smarter than that.”

“No, he’s not,” you mumble. Shank’s eyes don a gaze of realization.

“Ah,” he says before taking a drink, “Dixie wants to get back with Mason and you don’t like that idea, huh?”

You make no motion to verify his claims, but you don’t need to; he gets the answer from your silence, and offers you a shot of his drink.

“Hey,” he says, “we’ve all been there.”

You eye the alcohol distastefully, glancing up to meet his gaze. “Even you?”

Shank grows silent, leaning back with a look of regret and longing in his eyes. The tables have turned; he’s now in the position where he doesn’t have to answer.

“I’m sorry,” you say. He shakes his head.

“Don’t be sorry,” he says, “just know you’re not alone. We’ve all experienced heartbreak.”

You were curious about his tale, but you had a suspicion that he didn’t want to share, and you weren’t one to prod when someone wanted to be left alone. Apparently, your curiosity gleamed more strongly in your gaze than the latter trait, because he sighed.

“We were a dying breed,” he says gently, “two raiders that could think and read. She had this library back in Quincy—in the Commonwealth, you know where it is?”

You nod, and mumble: “Isn’t it overrun by ghouls?”

Grimly, he nods. “She used that old building as a base of operations, sent out her lackeys to subdue the surrounding settlers and take their shit. They found me bleeding out one night, took me in—she was like a fucking angel.”

“What happened to her?” You ask softly, leaning closer to hear his tale. He closes his eyes, expression contorted in pain, before glancing away.

“The fucking ghouls got her,” he whispered. You catch a glimpse of a single tear breaking past its ducts as he continues, “I was powerless, pinned under a bookshelf they’d overturned. I watched her get eaten alive as she screamed the order to her men to get me out safely.”

You faintly remembered being pinned under Cito, and tried to imagine the situation contorted in a different scenario. You didn’t want to continue that thought.

“That was way before all this,” Shank says, taking a deep breath. He looks over to you, his gaze hard.

“All I’m saying is at least your love’s alive.”

You look down with shame burning in your gut. The realization of the selfishness you’d been displaying hurts your heart further, and you say no more. Shank sits up straighter.

“Look,” he says, “I didn’t mean to make you feel like shit. I mean you can win him back, get it?” He sighs. “Fuck, kid, stop reminding me I have a heart.”

You look up at him, brows furrowed in perplexion. “What?”

“You look so pitiful,” he elaborates, “Jesus, I never thought I’d see a raider with a conscience.” 

You pause for a moment; you’d never really thought of yourself as a raider with a conscience, but at his mention of it you realize how accurate that claim actually was.

“Is that bad?” You ask.

“Nah,” Shank says, “but I wouldn’t be too open about it. Most raiders are heartless bastards—stupid, too. They think emotion makes you weak.”

You’d heard that all your life, which was why you’d been so ashamed to have been crying. You lean closer to Shank, whispering back to him.

“It doesn’t?”

Shank laughs, and it reminds you of Cito. You immediately lean back against your side of the booth, face burning—was it a popular consensus that you were stupid?

“No, kid,” he tells you, “emotion makes you strong. Anger, sorrow, happiness—think about it. It forces you to act. Without emotion, you wouldn’t be human, you… You’d be one of those fucking robots, like N.I.R.A. Do you want to be fucking N.I.R.A.?”

You shake your head vigorously—N.I.R.A. had recently been reprogrammed to say vulgar things, and you certainly did not wish the same fate to befall you. Plus, N.I.R.A. was a bitch.

“That’s what I thought,” Shank says with a nod. He rises like the conversation’s over; you supposed it was, until you thought of something to say.

“Shank,” you call.

He looks at you, and comes back over to the booth, leaning down to you. “Yeah?”

“You can read?”

Shank snorts and pulls out a journal, showing its dusty yellow pages to you. “You’ve seen this before,” he reminds you—the escapade with the mattress. Your ears redden in embarrassment as you catch his meaning, but he elaborates anyway:

“If I couldn’t read, how do I take notes, and what fucking use would they have?”

“I’m sorry,” you sputter, “I can’t.”

He pauses, peering at you. “Can’t read?” Your shake your head, and he sighs. “Most raiders can’t,” he mentions.

He gazes at you for a few moments before straightening himself, returning his book to the inner pocket of his jacket and shoving his hands into the outer ones. “Tell you what,” he starts, “you ever find the time, come by and I’ll teach you. You know where to find me.”

With that, Shank takes his exit, and you couldn’t help but shake the feeling that you’d somehow made a new friend.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry about the formatting, by the way; I copy and pasted this, and the indentations I'd had sorta didn't translate. I don't know how to fix it, either, so I apologize for that. 
> 
> But anyway, thanks for reading! I will update if anyone likes this <3


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